


The Body Swap

by wintersnight



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: #tim is so done, But He Gets Better, But first the angst, Damian isn't so good here, Eventual DickTim, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, because of shit like taking Robin away like a douche, dicktim - Freeform, one of those things from Tumblr, salty Tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 13:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20471864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnight/pseuds/wintersnight
Summary: “Magic users are dick bags,” is the first thing he comes up with, and it just sounds wrong in N’s deeper baritone. “Don’t shoot me, Hood.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time ago, an anon asked for this:  
_Is there any chance you can take up this prompt? Dick did something that had him accidentally switching bodies with Tim. Imagine his surprise when he finds himself in Tim's body. Tim who he has not talk to in ages and Tim who is now Dick, but in some dangerous situation that makes him wonder what Tim has been up to. Poor Tim would not be happy with the situation he finds himself in, because of Dick. Sorry for my babbling. Can you PLEASE take up this prompt. You always do it best. Thank you!!! _
> 
> So, I wrote an angsty thing that eventually ends up DickTim.  
I regret nothing.

He sucks in a breath like he’s _dying_.

And the brain is still in _fight_ mode, adapt to your surroundings, assess, place the dangers, find the shadows, palm the tech, and mother_fucking_ move.

He’s a Red Robin that’s had a seriously bad stint of _year_; one that’s weary down to the _bone_. One that is scrawny and scrappy, more raw and ruthless than he ever was wearing the R. Sometimes you have to _evolve _to deal with things like Lex Luthor, dick bag aliens, and terrorist organizations bent on any assortment of world domination.

Magic users _suck ass_ too.

Case in point:

Twenty-eight seconds ago he was in the middle of a fight in downtown Los Angeles against a magic-user; right now, he’s in Gotham. Really, he’d know the Wallstone _anywhere_.

“N, what _the fuck_ was that?”

The Red Hood is literally Right. Fucking. There.

“_Shit_,” he snarls out, already kicking into yet another type of _fight_ mode, but—

The voice.

The body difference.

One look at his hand and—_finger stripes_

Mother_fucker_.

“Dick?” Is Hood’s voice coming out low even with the synths, “what is it?”

Red (or N) holds up both hands in the universal _I’m not _**_that_**_ dangerous, don’t kick my ass_ kind of way, but he can already see Hood going for his sidearm, just, _you know_, very fucking familiar.

“Magic users are dick bags,” is the first thing he comes up with, and it just sounds _wrong_ in N’s deeper baritone. “Don’t shoot me, Hood.”

“…fuck, _Replacement?_”

“I’d say _good to see you_, but well, I’ve already stated the obvious.”

“Hn. Dick bags, yeah?”

“_Oh yeah_,” he takes a second to feel around for where N kept his cell now since the damn suit is just a second skin really because some people had _no shame_—

The iPhone is literally such an antiquated piece of shit that he almost drops it, just _ick_.

Before he gets the thing unlocked, “Addicted to You” cuts through the dark Gotham night, permeating soft lamp light.

Of anything he could have expected (shot, stabbed, a dance-off, a game of banter-fight, whatever really), the Red Hood to hold up a _just a minute_ finger while bringing the cell up to the side of the helmet, is not one of the scenarios.

“Uh-hu,” Hood nods.

He subtly checks the Nightwing suit for weapons, grapple, pellets, well, _something_ so he doesn’t get stabbed on top of everything else.

“Aw, _Dickie_, I’m hurt. Like I’d shoot the lil’ fucker er something.”

Red stays wisely silent, pellets palmed. You know, for just _in case_. Extra grapple line is still in the back of the waist, just like when they used to—

Hood is making a _hurry it along, asshole_ hand and finally holds the thing out (and is an Android of relative control _thank God_), “here y’are.”

“Red Robin,” sounds stupid in N’s deeper baritone.

“The Titans say _hi!”_ N yells enthusiastically, and his voice sounds so off with _Dick Grayson_ behind it (and it takes _effort_ to swallow down the bitter regrets, righteous anger, and old hurts anytime he has a break between catastrophes to wonder where it all went so _wrong_—)

“The fight?” And his (_N’s_) throat clicks slightly.

“Uh, _well_—I only got here _half-way_ through and all, Baby Bird—“

_Don’t fucking call me that_.

“He got away.”

“Magic users. Am I right?” And his voice sounds too _amused_, too _smug_, and he just wants to punch himself in the _face_ right about now, but there are _plans_ in the works for what he could realistically do to Dick’s body without permanent damage.

“Put Superboy on,” is ground out between clenched teeth.

“Aw, c’mon, we can fix this, Tim. I’ll—“

“It happened on our side,” is clipped, precise, “I’m on it. Just put Kon on the phone.”

There’s a hesitation on the line and whooshing of the background, soft _zaahs_ of movement (well, _Bat_-movement, that is), “Tim, I know we haven’t—we haven’t been _okay_ in a while—“ and Dick in his body isn’t even winded while dodging something. The grunt following tells him it is indeed Kon.

“This isn’t happening,” he interrupts, “at _all_. Thank-you but _fuck you_, Dick. You give me a member of my team, I get this shit _reversed_, and we wave bye-bye from a safe distance of several continents.”

“Jesus Tim, I thought we were _at least_—“

“Apparently you thought wrong. Give me Kon or I’m hanging up and throwing you in front of a train.”

The audible _click_ by his temple is just the Red Hood taking that for the threat it _really is_. “Do everyone a favor, and don’t _try it_, asshole.”

He turns very slowly, thinking how _fucked up_ it is that he’s not shorter than Jason this time around, “my brain in Dick Grayson’s body,” is all he needs to say.

“You little _shit_—“

“Go _die_, Hood,” he sneers, pellets already between his fingers.

“All right, all right,” N shouts through the phone in his voice, “I’m giving the phone to Superboy, just…dammit, Jay, calm down. Please?”

Something unintelligible comes through the synths, and _surprise, surprise!_ the Red Hood backs off, easing the trigger down. He points a finger at Red, tension in the lines of his stance, “you want I really put some effort into the dance, _Red_, try to make _good_ on that shit.”

And he doesn’t know if his smirk is anywhere _near_ N’s own evil expression, but he grins white in the night.

On the other end of the phone, Kon is apparently amused as hell (and _oh yeah_, he believes in karma—just _all the way_), “Hey Red! Or N…?”

“Fuck you,” Red snarls out, deeper with Dick’s vocal chords.

“Look at it this way,” Kon continues, “you can beat the hell out of his body instead of yours?”

And Red just walks right over that comment with, “I’m going to my Perch here and start on the usual list of magic users to get this crap reversed. Drop him off at the Manor, try following the Mystic if he left any kind of trail.”

“Well, someone pissed in _your_ cornflakes fearless leader.” And yes, that’s his _best friend_ right there, the epic douche bag. Bart probably already has a _list_ of shit he intends to say_._

“Not amused,” he replies and hangs up the phone without a good-bye, tossing it in Hood’s general direction, and throws the line, takes the appropriate swing in the direction of his Perch, reverently hoping for some_thing _to kick the shit out of on the way.

**

Five hours later, Dick Grayson (in his temporarily shorter body) is scowling like _mad, _taking the steps down to the Cave with rough, jerky movements. He’d spent the last twenty minutes in front of the bathroom mirror adjacent to his old room; it had been a rough twenty minutes of cataloguing the mass of new scars marring Tim Drake’s back, the new ones on his front (one right across his abdomen, too clean for the usual array of sharp, pointy things). He’s on his way down to the Cave for some computer time, start looking into what Timmy had been up to in the last few years since he’d been the Red Robin.

He lifts a small hand in greeting to Dami, fresh out of the Cave showers after a long patrol, and barely gets a _word_.

“_Drake_,” and all the venom is there, hitting Dick right in the chest. “Haven’t you learned you no longer have a _place_ here?”

Dick almost _chokes_, staring down at Little D, his mini-bro, his _partner_, his Robin, hurt and almost betrayed before he remembers he’s not wearing his own _face_.

And Dami hesitates, narrowing his eyes when he isn’t met with the usual scathing retorts he’s come to _expect_. The utterly crushed look on the former Robin’s face is not one he can ever remember seeing before _now_.

“It’s Dick,” he admits, numb, “Dami…do you really say that kind of thing to Tim?”

But the youngest Robin’s brain is switching gears, “Grayson? _Grayson_? How—?”

“The Titans were facing magic users,” and his face firms, crossing Tim’s arms over his chest while he stares his little brother down.

“_Tt, _useless. Drake allowed himself to get hit and take your body from you?”

“Little D—answer the _question_. You really don’t try to keep Tim from coming _home_, his home, do you?”

Now the smallest gives Dick an impatient look, “honestly, how is it that you have managed to live _this long_ will forever remain a mystery.”

“_Dami_—“

“You are well aware,” the youngest rolls right over him, “the Robin legacy is _mine_ by blood. _He_ had no rights to it. He has no place here once I took over the mantle.”

“How could you do that to him?! God, _Dami_, he was Robin in his own _right_. He’s part of the _family_ whether it’s by blood or not—“

“We have argued this before,” Damian just raises a hand, “and we will never agree on it, Grayson. I believed that is why we _stopped_ having the Drake discussion in the first place, I _believed_ you finally began to see _reason_.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” B interjects, scaring the _shit_ out of both of them (because, you know, _the night_).

Dami goes stiff immediately, face carefully neutral, “Father, I—“

“The role of Robin has nothing to do with _blood_,” the Batman admonishes shortly, striding right past his son, cape swirling around him.

Dick just turns Tim’s back and follows B to the computer, leaving Damian to his own churning thoughts while he climbs the stairs to retire in the Manor for the rest of the night.

“I need to do some research,” he fills the boss in, automatically throwing a hip against the chair, and almost falling on his ass because, well, height difference and such.

B hums while the system comes to life, his way to indicate _yes, hyperactive child, I’m listening_.

Instead, he steps to B’s peripheral and raises the shirt off Tim Drake’s abdomen, then _waits for it_.

The cowl comes off, blue eyes narrow on the incision scar, the calculating gaze going up to Dick’s (_Tim’s_, _who he hasn’t seen in too long without a mask—usually when the criminal world shit has hit the fan and either the Bats or JLA need Red’s brand of _**_talent_**). Dick just turns and raises the shirt up to the mass of white scars marring Red Robin’s back.

“So, yes, I need some intel,” on _what the fuck he’s apparently missed_.

But B’s mouth gets that crazy little moue when he’s already got theories and evidence to back him up.

Dick points an accusing finger, “you already _know_.”

Well, _World’s Greatest Detective_.

“I’ve been keeping track,” B fills in shortly.

Dick catches himself this time and can lean on the console to give B all the attention in the world.

**

The security system shows him his own face standing outside the penthouse perch, and Tim sighs, considers the benefits of staying in lockdown to work the spell from Zatanna (who had likewise _laughed like an asshole_, really, superheroes are just a community of gossipmongers that enjoy the _shit_ out of it when he actually gets screwed over for once), and hoping Dick goes back to the Manor.

He interprets the expression on his own face to the one he’s currently wearing, and _yup, _that’s the _former Batman’s got your number_ look.

Fan-_fucking_-tastic.

“I’ll have it in another few hours,” he says when he cracks open the door enough to show his taller, more flexible self, “and I haven’t done anything to your body.”

“That’s what worries me, Timmers,” is Dick’s hard tone from his own mouth when the smaller of the two pushes himself inside and flicks the _who knows what_ pellets back into hiding.

“How did you find me?” Is what he asks instead, crossing the arms over the chest broader than his own.

“I’m also this thing called _a detective_,” Dick deadpans and…it works, _really_.

Tim nods for the _touché_, giving Dick a mental point, “all right, I think we’ve already covered all the basis, so there’s no need for you to—“

“Be here, Tim?” And his smaller body gets right up into his _bubble_. So, regardless of what body he’s in, Dick’s understanding of _personal space_ is non-existent as usual. “I don’t have to _acknowledge_ you? To _deal_ with you? Is that what you were going to say?”

And what Dick is pissed about goes right over his head, but he’s on the defensive by tone and body language alone.

“Maybe I’m missing something here,” he starts slowly in a voice that used to _mean something_, “but whatever crawled up your ass and _died_—“

“You don’t have a _spleen_,” shuts him right the hell up.

“_So?_ I can still do my _fucking job_, Dick. I lead my team, it doesn’t affect—“

“You told me,” Dick jabs a finger right into his sternum, “you _told me_, Tim, I was still your big brother and you knew I’d always _catch you_. I _believed _it.”

Tim makes the face he’s wearing go neutral, blank.

“And Dami…I just learned to let 75% of the crap he says go in one ear and out the other, but he’s part of the reason you’ve _stayed gone?_ _Dammit, Tim_. You should have _told_ me what it was _doing_ to you. You’ve always been able to come to me,” and Dick’s voice is picking up, anger making it well up and spew out, “I’ve _always_ tried not to let you down, no matter what. You’re my _brother_, and yes, you _asshole_, I love you, and—“

“You thought I was crazy,” he admits, low and completely empty, “you took Robin with some bullshit about being equals and you tried to get me into Arkham.”

Dick eases down, staring up into his own face intently, the expression looking as though it actually belongs on the face.

“After I brought B back, when I didn’t come to Gotham, I figured it was a done deal. You made your choice, and your choice told me I didn’t have a _place_ there, that I was never really a Robin anyway. Him saying it? Just like _you_ saying it, Dick, so I stayed the fuck out until some _catastrophe_ or one of you needed _tech support_ or some shit.”

Dick’s jaw tightens, but Tim doesn’t back down.

“You want to know what it _did_ to me, Dick? It made me realize what my _place_ really was, so it’s _fine_, I _get it_. You’ve got the real thing, the _right_ Robin, so spare me this big brother _act_.”

He shoves past his own body, back to his system, to his comfort pot of coffee ready to be devoured, and the pressure in his chest is completely _inconsequential_ because he’s had _time_ to come to grips, to accept the unavoidable truths.

“Now, _like I said_, I still need a few hours, and you obviously know where the door is.”

But, the body standing shock still hasn’t moved, has barely breathed, his own eyes taking in everything possible for the detective in Dick’s hindbrain while his _fucking heart_ gives a lurch.

“I made good choices,” Dick finally admits, “I didn’t carry them out like I should have. I didn’t… I didn’t take care of you like I should have so you’d never doubt your place, so you’d always _know_ you’re a Bat. No matter what happens, Tim, no matter what Damian might have said to you, you’ll always be one of us.”

Sitting at his system with Dick’s longer legs stretched out and the translation finally ready, the laugh that comes from his chest is one that makes the older vigilante _flinch_.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” and he soothes away the _utter bullshit_ vibe, not looking up when the door opens and closes.

**

Getting his body back means _peace, I’m _**_out_**.

Because, _well_, the Manor and such. At least he’d left Dick’s body in a complex system of Gotham’s sewers, conveniently without a cell phone or comm.

Oops.

Well, whatever. Croc is in Blackgate for the moment, just taking a vacay.

So, he has the time to get back to the Perch, get a quick shower, and take a ride to Titan’s Tower, get back on his usual crazy ass workload and conveniently forget he _ever_ got stuck in some terrible _trope_.

He goes down the back staircase, hitting an alternative vent leading down into the back side of the Cave where he can just hop a Ducati without running in to any other Bats that might be writing down notes from the night’s activities, fixing random vehicles, making more tech, running the gambit of analysis, or feeding the odd gathering of _animals_.

Once he hits freedom without any snags, he can take in a full breath again, riding out into the familiar countryside paths back into Gotham proper.

The hidden entrance to his underground garage opens up to the sub-basement where he parks the bike, and takes the stairs two a time to get to the penthouse. Suppressing a shudder at the thought of whatever Dick might have done to his body, he rips the borrowed Gotham Knights t-shirt off, hand already moving up his abdomen before he gets the door closed and faces the mirror—

And winces.

Black sharpie with Dick’s careful block printing is all over his chest, upper arms, and abdomen, each scar recorded with a date, time, place, weapon of choice, and injury statistics. With a slow turn, he glances over his marked shoulder to the scrawling chicken scratch of the Red Hood on his back.

Dick took his time mapping out the last couple of years—on Tim’s own _body_.

His eyes trace the pathways, read the commentary, look at that neat printing with things like _could have _**_died_**_ again_, and maybe…_maybe_ some part of him wants to step back, give Dick an inch, even though he’s just fucking tired of being the last one standing.

It’s not a big enough part to stop him from getting in the shower and scrubbing his skin raw and red with harsh soap usually for abrasions. It’s not a big enough part to stop him from suiting up and riding out to the Batwing twenty minutes before Bruce Wayne shows up at the door to his Gotham penthouse. It’s not a big enough part to answer his phone when it’s Damian’s number ringing through.

It’s not a big enough part to stop him from leaving.


	2. Body Swap: The Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In the beginning, I didn’t want a twelve-year old getting involved. You’re right about that. I didn’t want you to take up the tunic and neither did Bruce, so you are one hundred percent right. In the beginning, Tim, we didn’t want you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...one of my tumblr peeps, Jayseedub wanted a continuation of the Body Swap drabble, and tbh, I just really wanted a knock-down drag-out fight between the two of them about all of that. I wanted Dick just as pissed as Tim (because of than “you’re my big brother Dick, I know you’ll always come for me,” line Tim fed him in the Red Robin comic. Such a load of crap, right?). I wanted Tim fucking _screaming_, and welp, I got it. So prepare for the feel train, it’s rolling down the track.
> 
> And also, a new HC that really makes me feel better about the whole Dick taking the tunic thing that some of their past a little easier for me to deal wtih, but you can read about it and decide ;)

A few days after the little _incident_, he’s settled back into his usual routine: check with his team, track any nefarious activity, do any necessary tech refreshes, and dip out to track any number of leads.

He’s on the _dip out_ part, already suiting up and packing some supplies for an extensive trip out to start up with infiltrating an underground fighting ring he thinks might be a cover for something a _hell_ of a lot worse when the Tower’s systems tell him someone with a passcode not Titan specific has touched-down on the roof.

The systems pops up a screen so he can watch the Javelin ease down, effectively blocking his own plane from being able to take off.

Behind the whiteouts, his eyes narrow, but he’s moving to the communal floor, giving the executive override to the elevator sliding slowly to his Perch. The re-direct is going to be better for however _this_ little convo is going to go.

He double-checks his utility belt absently as the doors slide open.

“Titans are out,” he starts, “you’ll have to pull the JL roster instead.”

Nightwing stops _dead_ at the lack of humor or empathy. It’s just business as fucking usual--_natch_. And Big Wing pauses with it, calculating the last time before the body swap incident that he’d actually seen the face, the _eyes_, under the mask before he was staring at it in the mirror. (_Why didn’t he realize it before?_)

Soft click and a whirl when central air kicks in, blowing cold on his neck and shoulders, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t _move_. From behind the whiteouts, he’s staring, eyes moving over Red’s abdomen, seeing the roadmap of scars, seeing the new scores against the good guys, seeing a whole lot of _vigilante_ without any of the _kid_ he used to see.

That’s the only good thing about the swap now, isn’t it?

It was impossible for Tim to duck and hide if he wasn’t even in his own _body_.

“I really _hate_ the sewers under the east side, Timmy,” he comes back easily, forcing it to be Tim and Dick, not N and Red. He doesn’t feel any kind of bad, “But you _knew_ that. You’ve known that since your were in the Robin tunic, so that was a nice way to get back at me.” Now he’s moving forward, eyes for every twitch, every breath, every aborted attempt at a pocket in the utility belt, the slight twitch of the head to indicate the eyes moving for some other escape.

But, that isn’t going to happen.

Because now he _sees_ how things have progressed. He can pick out the shadows and old pain in the slight scar on Tim’s cheekbone and the familiar furrow of his forehead--one he’d always associated with the baddies, Tim’s _planning to break shit_ furrow (and well, who’s getting a load of that _now_?)

Even if Tim’s playing leader of the Titans, playing at keeping himself above the petty fucking emotions that leave him open and vulnerable, Dick, for the first time in _too long_ sees right past the facade.

And his lip curls up in a sneer, slow boiling anger that’s been simmering for _days_, one that started the moment he let himself out of Tim’s Perch in a body that was _fucked_ with new scars and lack of crucial viscera. Once he realized Tim had been lying to him the whole time--had just been playing some sort of fucked-up _role--_ the slow, churning betrayal turned into anger just _that quick._

Tim had let himself step back and away, hadn’t _trusted_ him enough to open his damn mouth with the Real. Fucking. Deets.

(_Why did you stop **talking** to me?! Why didn’t you tell me it was all too much? Why did you let yourself slip through my grip? Dammit, Tim. God_dammit.)

And. It. _Hurts_. Hurt to know Tim pulled the deflection card on him. On. _Him_. (The guy that apparently lies to whoever the hell Batman _is_ at the time).The devices they used against criminals and murderers, against megalomaniacs and psychopaths, the weapons they used to hide the meaty humanity under the capes so the baddies couldn’t _break_ them open with it--

Their tools to stop the bad guys.

And Tim used it on _him_.

So when Nightwing resumes his stalk, to come face-to-face with his little bro-- the leader of the Titans (and just how _fucked_ is it that he’s pretty sure Tim doesn’t want to be called that now, well too damn _bad_), his hips roll in a smooth, seamless motion anyone that _knew him_ knew meant _time to get **real**_. Just like he suspects, like he half-hoped _wouldn’t_ happen, Tim’s fingers flicker, probably activating the gauntlets to spit something out in his palm (he’s already re-programmed himself to be on the offensive, not to fight _with_ but to fight _against_).

“I think having Hood write all over my fucking back kind of makes us even,” Red Robin comes back, neutral and empty. “Besides, Croc was still in Arkham. You’re welcome.” The _asshole_ doesn’t necessarily have to be said to be understood.

“Even?” And it’s low, dangerous. Nightwing’s movements are precise and even as he raises the whiteouts so those electric blue eyes can hyperfocus, to give complete _attention_. “You think we’re _even,_ Tim?” And Dick leans down just enough to put the two of them close, “because I sure as _hell_ don’t think so.”

And the furrow in that forehead gets deeper, sharper, almost the _time to fight_ furrow. “I served my fucking _time_ as Robin, I did what I set out to do, and your protege gets what he wants. It’s fine, right? The day gets saved. So what the hell is _your_ problem?”

Oh no. Oh no he _didn’t_.

Dick’s upper lips curls in a sneer, “did what you set out to do? Is _that_ how it went? You never _wanted_ to be part of the family in the first place? You just wanted to get being Robin done and _over with_ because it just some _obligation_?”

The furrow falls away from Red’s brow because _what now?_

“Your mom and dad were always away, so training, fighting, taking up _my name_ was what to you? Something to keep you _busy_? Were we just a damn _hobby _or something, Tim? Is _that_ what you’re trying to tell me?” The warm edge is bleeding through, but finally, he seems to get _somewhere_.

Because Tim draws back insanely _fast_ and gives absolutely _no shits_ about punching him right in the face.

“**Fuck.**_ **You**!” _And it’s Tim that’s yelling back at him, it’s _Tim_. Not Red, not the mask, not the cold shoulder.

Dick doesn’t fight it, doesn’t counter it, doesn’t come back even though he’s fairly pissed right the hell off, but he works his jaw a little (because that? Was a nice one) and straightens up to the clenched fists and bared teeth.

“You could have _said _that a long time ago,” Dick comes back because, _no Tim_, we’re not just letting it _go_, “that we were only some way to pass the time, not that you ever wanted _us, _just the _fucking_ name. All you wanted was the R all that time? Would have been nice if you’d just _said_ so, then I wouldn’t have gotten so _invested_ in you--”

And he’s calculating, wondering how much more Tim can take before he breaks, before he finally spills out his weakness (reads as: _the truth_).

“I-I fucking _bled_ for that cape, _you asshole_. I almost _died_ time and fucking _time_ again _for that cape_. My _dad_, my fucking _dad, Dick,_” and the hitch is still there, the utter _agony_, “...all-all because I was Robin. I kept Bruce on the straight and narrow as much as he _let me_. And what the _fuck_ did it all mean?! What the _fuck_ did it _get me?!_ Thrown out on my ass? Told I was crazy? That I just had to _accept it_ when Bruce was “dead?” How many superheroes get another chance? Like Jason-_Mother_-_Fucking_-Todd?! How farfetched is it _really_?”

And Dick lets him spit it out, the warming anger burning away the icy calm of Red (_reads as the **other** Robin_) to reveal slivers of Tim Drake--the teenager in _pain_.

_That’s_ the face he wants to see again, his partner and friend, _Timmy_. Because Dick gets the _vigilante_ now, after mapping the journey from losing the cape until now, tracking the baddies, tracking the trail to find Batman, seeing what kind of things _“Robin couldn’t do,_” all of it justified _who_ and _what_ Red Robin is. But Tim? The young, damaged kid under the mask is the one Dick needs to _help_, needs to see, needs to _understand_. And, no, he isn’t leaving until they hash this out. So, tough, Timmy. _I’ve got you now_.

“You couldn’t even look me _in the face_,” is almost screamed at him, Tim refusing to back the hell down, his hands shaking with the poison pouring out, all the mistakes and misunderstandings, all the strain and stress, the hard decisions and unavoidable repercussions. He fully intends to give back in _spades_. “You threw some _bullshit_ about being equals and gave another kid _my name_. It wasn’t _yours then_. I made it _mine_. It’s all I had _left_, the only thing I had left of _Bruce_, and you gave it the fuck away like I meant _nothing_. Like I was _garbage_. _I_ _had nothing else left._”

But Dick moves, gripping his biceps in an unforgiving hold and already ducking a hand under Tim’s defenses to rip off the domino, to look at _him_, not the whiteouts.

Snarling and ferocious, wet eyes and _bared teeth_, seeing what happened, what those tough choices did to him, to _them_ makes Dick’s jaw clench down and his chest fucking _ache_.

“You _idiot_. You had _me_. Dammit, Tim, you’ve _always had me_. I thought you knew that. I thought after everything, _everything_ we’d been through, in the five years we bled_ together_, you’d always _know_ I’m here for you. I’m here for you **no matter what**. No matter what happens, or how far you _go,_ you _always_ have _me_.”

The younger vigilante in his hold, the one fighting against his grip like a bleeding, dying animal is snarling and growling in such fucking _pain_ (and he’d missed it, missed how much he hurt Tim, how much damage they’ve done to one another without really _trying_).

He grips harder, not letting Tim pull away this time, not letting him hide behind Red.

“Robin is just a fake _name_, Tim. Dammit, Robin isn’t, was _never,_ _who you are_. Didn’t you figure that _out_ in the damn _desert?_” And he bares his teeth as well, shaking the younger vigilante just so he doesn’t give him _nuclear noogies_ and _months of endless cuddles_. Just _how could Tim be _such_ a dumb ass not to have **known**?_ Not to have _called_? Not to have just said _something_?

Was the trust between them broken _that badly?_ Why the hell had Dick even _believed him_ when he said he _knew_ Dick would always catch him? Why hadn’t he seen through the bullshit back _then?_

Tim’s nose is turning red, his watery eyes narrowed, every muscle tensed up for the _fight or flight_ instinct to kick in. Dick doesn’t give him the chance. Even if he is still _supremely pissed_, he pulls Tim hard into his chest, wraps both arms around him _tight_, trapping him at the waist and shoulders, a hand on his neck, waiting for the right time to slide into his hair. It’s how Tim used to need it after a hard night, a bad _run_ of it, and Dick is shameless in using it to his every advantage. He puts his cheek down on the top the crown of too-long hair and breathes against Tim’s ear, “You have it _wrong_. I didn’t think you were _crazy_. You weren’t talking to anyone long before Bruce disappeared. You were pulling back, pulling away, and _I couldn’t help you_. You wouldn’t let me _help you_, Timmy. You had a _gun_, and I know you had it in your hand the night I happened to call and check on you. I always _knew_.”

And the body he can’t let _go_ of is shuddering harder in his arms at the reveal, that Dick had always _known_ what the third Robin was ready to do, how far gone he had almost _been_. If Dick Grayson hadn’t called him that night, forced him to keep talking, pretty much kicked the door in to the shitty apartment in the ‘Haven with the phone still up to his ear. If Dick had just _hung up the phone_.

Well, they wouldn’t be _here_ now, would they?

“I didn’t know what else to _do_. _Dammit_, being Robin was _killing_ you and you couldn’t even see it.”

Frozen for long moments, Tim blinks rapidly against his watery vision at the plain cream wall over Dick’s shoulder because well, _that_ changes things just a little, doesn’t it?

_(Was it? Was the tunic really killing him back then? He made bad calls after Dad, after everyone-- but-but..._the .45 auto was the most solid thing he’d held for a while_)_.

“Dr. Erin O’Malley is a therapist known in _our circles_. How do you think Roy kicked the habit? And who Ollie saw when he came back from his soul-searching thing? Barry told her about his _mom_, for heaven’s sake, Timmy! She knows J’onn isn’t from around here, and Kara has _big brother_ issues with Clark. After Blockbuster and-and Tarantula, she helped _me_ too. Hell, the majority of her clientele are _superheroes_, and that’s why I called her. I was getting desperate for you to talk to someone, _anyone_ before you did _something_.” And the fear might be old and dusty, but Dick’s tone gets thin with it anyway, the ‘he’s going to kill himself’ vibe crawling down his spine, that made him chase after Tim right after he left the Cave, ready to leave Gotham behind to go on his quest to find Bruce.

He feels Tim’s chest stutter against his, feels how hard Tim is biting down on his lower lip to keep the half-sob _in_. The harness is digging into the thin Kevlar lining of the Nightwing suit, and he makes an irritated noise, pulling one arm away _just long enough_ to deactivate the thing and toss it on one of the couches without really letting Tim escape.

“The not telling you about Dami taking up the mantle was wrong, and I am such an _asshole_ for it. I’m sorry, Tim. I’m so _sorry_.”

He feels the tremble go through Tim’s whole body at the admission. He _feels_ how the younger vigilante tries to ruthlessly _squash_ what he believes is an obvious weakness by trying to pull back again, shoving his palms against Dick’s chest to get leverage. Dick just sweeps his arms by his sides and wraps himself around Tim like a blanket, walking them backwards a few feet to press Tim against the wall so he’s less likely to escape.

“I am sorry how it all happened, but I don’t regret making you move on. Someone had to break you out of the spiral before it killed you, and as much as it sucks and I _hated it_, it still _worked_. The stuff with Ra’s? We are eventually going to _talk about_ because _you_, you should have called me _dammit_. How _fast _do you think I would have torn the Cradle _apart_ looking for you? Faster than Clark when Lois is in some kind of _peril_. Honestly, when have I ever _left you_ when you called? _Especially when you magically **lose** a spleen_?!”

And all the facts, all the digging, all the new information makes him clench his jaw with how much he didn’t even _know_, the muscle jumping against Tim’s temple and his arms unconsciously tighten even _more_, absorbing the progressive tremble of limbs and chest, of forced, slow breathing, and the attempt to keep _control_.

“I’m so _pissed off_ right now, Tim. So. Pissed, but I’m not letting you _go_. Hell. No. Not this time, _do you understand me?_”

“Go to _hell_,” but the tone is thick and wet, the struggle renews with vigour, “like you have any reason to be _pissed?_ You had no problem when that little _asshole_ made sure I knew I was just a fucking _stand-in_.”

“Dami was an asshole to _everyone_\--” he starts to placate, but pauses when he remembers the acidic tone, the _honesty_ in Dami’s tone when he was the one wearing Tim’s face.

Maybe he’d underestimated how much Dami had an impact back then--

Obviously he _has_ since Tim find the weakness in his hold, grips his wrist, turns on his heel _fast_, and _throws_ him in a familiar move.

But since Dick _was_ Robin, _was_ Batman, _is_ Nightwing, he rebounds off the wall and comes back for it, missing Tim by a miniscule margin when the younger folds his knees at just the right second.

Dick lands it on the Communal Floor’s kitchen, landing crouched on top the island without even a wobble, and stares Tim down with a frown marring his features.

“I didn’t _know_ it was that bad, Tim. I _didn’t know_\--”

“Of course you didn’t,” with scathing heat behind it. “It’s not like you’d want to hear _anything_ against _your fucking Robin_ now would you?” And all that tightly wound anger, all that pent-up _pain_ is so obvious in the way Tim refuses to advance, refuses to let his voice raise again.

“Tim, I swear, at the time--”

“But you _got_ what you _wanted_, didn’t you, Dick?” Is all dangerous now, low and pitched, the flash of Tim’s teeth in the overhead lights, “you got the Robin you _wanted_, the Robin that was fucking _blood_. It wouldn’t have _mattered_ if you’d paid enough to attention to know he _cut my fucking zip line_, or _he’s _the one that took me _out_ of the Cave’s mainframe like I was a _stain_ on the tunic. Even if you _knew_ all of that at the time, _what would it have really mattered?_ I was just the _stand-in_ from the first time you wore the cowl, and I _get it_ now.”

“**_No_**_,_” Dick snarls, leaping off the island in a smooth flow of muscle and power, countering Tim’s duck and dodge, forcing the leader of the Titans back against the wall again, “_that isn’t true_. That was _never_ true,” and his voice has gone deep, dark, eyes narrowed outlined by the domino, “you were _always_ my partner, just as much as Bruce was, _so were you_.”

“Don’t fucking _lie_ to me now–” Tim comes back, his voice half-hoarse from yelling, screaming, his whole body clenched _tight_, “if I would have know that _truth_, it would have been _easier_ from the start. Bruce didn’t _hide it from me_, Dick. You did!”

And _that_ little bomb drop? Oh Bruce is going to _hear about this_.

Later when there would be audio and vid. Then the Batman could have his own time to address this obviously gross _oversight_.

For now, though, he’s going to make a _hell_ of a lot of things very _clear_.

“In the beginning, I didn’t _want_ a twelve-year old getting involved. You’re right about that. I didn’t _want_ you to take up the tunic and neither did Bruce, so you are _one hundred percent right_. In the _beginning_, Tim, we _didn’t_ want you.”

And just the facial ticks, the tightening of a gloved fist, the tells Tim had apparently tried so hard to train _out_ of himself since he’d been Red, give Dick so much _more_ than he had before-- realizing how _long_ this had been something at the back of Tim’s brain pan.

“It would be too easy for your to get hurt, for you to _die_. You had a _dad_ who would _mourn you_, Tim. You still had _family_. You still had things to lose Bruce and Jason and I _never did_, so _no_, we didn’t want you risking your life for _our_ Mission.”

Clenching jaw, eyes getting wet again, but Dick watches Tim flutter his eyes to hold _back_. Not there yet, _not there yet_.

“But in the first _year_, you proved how smart and capable you are. You didn’t back down, you didn’t _give in_ or give _up_. You wore that tunic like it was the only thing that _mattered_. You gave the role of Robin more than I did at that age or Jason did. You made Robin a force to be reckoned with, and you made us, me and Bruce, so fucking _proud_. So _proud_ you stood by us and just _kept on fighting_. You _became_ our family, Tim, my brother and Bruce’s _son_. Blood didn’t matter, it _never mattered_. Not then and not now. Despite _all of it_, you’re still and always _will be_ my little brother and nothing, _nothing_ is going to change that.” A little fact: he is going to _pound_ into Dami’s skull because some little birds need to _realize_, the _first_ Robin was never blood either. The ‘true son’ is going to get one _hell_ of a lesson when he gets back to Gotham.

But for right now, _for right now_, Tim’s eyes are wet and blown wide in surprise, his hands and arms half-poised, frozen in shock but for the small, almost imperceptible trembling (_Oh, God, Tim, how long have you felt like this? How long have you believed--?_). When Tim drags in a breath, lets out a broken, choked, noise, Dick is right up in his space, gripping and holding hard by the time his eyes spill over.

It a horrible and wonderful thing at the same time, when Tim’s shaky hands come up under his arms, around his back, and _grips_ his shoulders tight enough that the bruises are going to be _epic_. When Tim’s face is hidden in the side of his neck, and he can feel the tears sliding down his skin to the suit, knows the younger vigilante is still trying to fight _it_ instead of just letting _go_.

Dick turns his face enough to bury his nose in the too-long hair and close his own hot eyes _tight_ because he _missed this_. Missed this too much to bear.

His tone is gruff and wobbly, his hold inescapable when he finally comes out with it, “we… We may not have wanted you in the beginning, Tim but we sure as hell did in no time _at all_. Geeze, you’re an idiot. I mean, who _wouldn’t_ want _you?_ Even immortal megalomaniacs want a piece of _that_.”

Half-laughing and half-sobbing, Tim’s muscles try to contract, try to make himself _smaller_ in such a familiar move that Dick blinks fast but still manages to get a few wet drips in Tim’s hair. He gives absolutely _zero_ shits about it and manages to reach down and get an arm under Tim’s knees to lift him up high against Dick’s chest, takes them both to one of the couches on the communal floor where he can sit with Tim in his lap and hold on for as long as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you for reading <3


	3. Body Swap: The Follow-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few months down the line, and he’s brought to a crux in his theories while standing in the same echoy shadows, pulling a uniform from his old locker, and starting up the rituals like he used to back when he was, you know, _that_ Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like threes for some reason *shrugs* so here's the last part. A little NSFW.

It’s crazy how he expected things to go back to the way they were. How he _expected_ to fade back into obscurity, coming to Gotham when the call went out, using his crime fighting merit badge to stop the baddies, and fuck off back to San Fran when it was all over and done with.

What he _didn’t_ expect, however, is N to be right up in his grill, grabbing an arm, clucking his tongue to look at the wicked gash and shake his head with narrowed lenses.

What he didn’t expect was to wake up in Dick’s apartment with his injuries usually wrapped and the smell of coffee just about _right on_.

What he didn’t expect is B showing up at the Tower with his whole _doom and gloom_ to scare the _shit_ out of his people just to deliver a packed dinner straight from Alfred Pennyworth’s kitchen.

What he didn’t expect is Robin to be slightly _insane_ when he pulled the youngest out of a burning building, throwing himself in without _thinking_, pulling on the hand he can see until the kid comes out from under flaming debris. He’s hacking around the smoke in his lungs, checking Robin’s neck for his pulse when those eyes open, and a gloved hand moves _fast_ to grip his, for the kid’s eyes to get strangely wet, and the youngest vigilante to turn on his side, his spine bowing, to curve his body around Red’s hand and shake.

What he didn’t expect is the Red Hood to show up in Monaco and break into his safe house, thumb his eyelid down with a gloved hand and tell him he’s going to get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep the easy way or the _hard_ way.

What he didn’t expect is Cass to be sitting on his fire escape when he manages to hide out in Gotham for a whole _day_ to attend a board meeting, cancelling his plans to _get the fuck out ASAP_ because she demands he stays in with her tonight to play board games (the underlying _or else_ is enough to make his head spin because _what the great fuck are they all doing? Now, they’ve got Cass in on it?_).

What he doesn’t expect is Nightwing to trap him on a rooftop when he’s balls deep in playing detective, the older vigilante pinning him, mouth drawn down when the _I don’t need a babysitter, stop this shit_ comes to the fore again, and he _fights_ because at this juncture, that’s all he can reasonably _do_ anymore. When N raises the lenses on his dom, raises the lenses on his own, and leans down to shut him up in the craziest way imaginable, he thinks he really might have died this time–

Because the good things, the right things, the rewards, the _good job tonights_ and _we’ve got your backs_ have been gone so long that this? Couldn’t be anything other than trying to keep tabs on him, make sure he stays where the Bats can find him if they need him. That, at least, keeps him prepared for the inevitable downfall.

**

A few months down the line, and he’s brought to a crux in his theories while standing in the same echoy shadows, pulling a uniform from his old locker, and starting up the rituals like he used to back when he was, you know, _that_ Robin.

Hands and wrists get six wraps each, work out the sharp muscle, make ‘em burn before it’s time to fly, maybe take a few minutes on the mat to warm it up, have a little Tool, a little 311 if it’s easy, have a little In This Moment if it’s _not_.

It has been since he, uh, came back (let Dick lure him, the asshole) to crash at the Manor, sleeping off some run-of-the-mill _owfuck_ being absurdly glad things like _fiery infernos_ don’t scratch the surface of his usual Monday anymore. Really, just a weekend thing for shits and giggles.

Finding out he still has a locker, a spot in the garage, a fucking _room_, a mug and coffee just for him—

There was too much _Welcome Home_ underlying all the usual back-and-forth and casual crime fighting.

Sometimes Jason picks up what he’s laying down and needs a little warm up, too. It might be Dami when the night before was fruitless and he needed to work out aggression, the moves fast and furious, to bring his vicious side _out_ before he could balance the good still riding on the ridges of his cape. B only when it was time to _talk_ and needed some time to warm up to the subject before he could realistically pin his third Robin and put down the truth in his usual Q&A. You know, _World’s Greatest Detective_.

When it’s _Dick_ though, well, that’s a completely different level of _fight_.

And he should have _known_ better than to trust _that smile_ when Dick finally cajoled him into staying a night, “just _one_ night,” in the Manor to do some detecting early in the am because of office hours and such. He should have _known_ better because it became more than _just one night_. Randomly waking the fuck up in his room there, drinking coffee while he showers, uses the mats, and—

Dick must have planned to have him alone in the Cave when the first sparring session turned into _tooclosegetcloser_, when the moves stopped being taps of a good shot, and throws only happened with the both of them on the ground (_Dick grinding up against his ass **on purpose**)_.

It was low assurances the cameras were looped and _you smell good, Timmy, feel perfect like this_.

It’s a different kind of fight when he’s moaning into Dick’s mouth and running his hands under the silly t-shirt so he can have _skin,_ and of all places to be their first? This...is not really what he envisioned. At. All. (But at the time...he hadn’t been complaining. _Nope_..

Once they cleaned up and managed to stagger back upstairs and through the abandoned main floor of the Manor to shower in Dick’s room (and...well, place number two not nearly as awkward, though the amount of positions Dick can get into while in a shower is nothing less than _awe-inspiring._), his chest is loose as his muscles, falling asleep way, _way_ too easily to the familiar creaks and groans, half laying on Dick’s chest and feeling warm for the first time in...well, he’ll leave it at that.

But like some _random_ portal into the multiverse (sigh, _again_), the whole lot of effort became routine and comfortable, became part of his nature again, sucked him in, and welp, here he is _now_.

After patrol tonight, he’s going back to his Perch and get ready for the inevitable trip back to San Fran, doing the team thing for the week. If he isn’t back in Gotham for Friday night, a phone call would ensue. If everyone was feeling pissy, then it would be Alfred on the other end of the line.

(Just, _why_ do that to him? He can only ride the Pennyworth Guilt Train for so long before he has to get _off_ and do whatever necessary to make it _stop_).

The long and the short of it is—at some _point_ in the last few months, he’d made it back to the Bats, and the crazy-crime-fighting-slash-family-meals-and-noogies thing is becoming something _familiar_ and expected.

You know, _trap_.

At this juncture, when they’re laying down the routes and their separate investigations, when connections to the Bowery might lead to Dixon Docks and down along the riverfront where some of Match’s people got an _ear_ to the ground could intersect with the gangbangers toting tainted opioids for cheap, leaving the buyers DOA. 

And it’s a crazy thing how the Red Hood gives him a bro fist and plans to meet up for roof tacos before the second half of the night hits, how Robin gives _no shits_ about shoving one of Pennyworth’s sandwiches pretty much _in his face_ because _no, fool, you may not leave before you eat_, how B ruffles his hair before the zoom tubes take him out of Gotham and into _that_ realm of kick-ass crime fighting.

It’s a crazy thing (how Nightwing pulls him in _tight_, grips him with both hands, breathes against his neck, whispers stupid, _pointless_ shit in his ear to make him laugh before it’s time to fly) how it makes something in his chest that used to be fucking _broken_ as shit, that used to be _heavy_, that used to weigh him right the fuck _down_, how it makes all those scattered, fractured pieces start to come back together again.

This...wasn’t in the _plan_.

Because along the way, the original plans had to _change_, to adapt to a new reality

_Where do you see yourself in twenty years, Timothy?_

_Dead. That makes the most sense_

But the plans have shifted again, the reality altered with the inclusion of these self-sacrificing _ass hats_. It’s grown out of the team, the JL, the general populace, it’s grown right back to his fucking _roots_, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. He’s already too deep to raise the other foot and be _gone_ out of Gotham.

Instead, he’s got plans for Hood when the Pit starts to eat at him, for Dami when the old recriminations and the fight to be who he _wanted_ instead of what they tried to _make him_, for Dick when he pushes himself so far past the limit of his endurance even _he_ can’t see it’s time to _stop_, for B when reliving the old horror stories, the old _failures_ instead of the victories, over and over, fighting harder and harder to get rid of the demons on his cape.

He takes the post-patrol hug without a fight (is _completely_ onboard with the hand groping his ass), helps Jay find his other spare clip, and lays a hand on Dami’s shoulder before those two hit the big car and take off into the night. He and Jay follow behind on Ducatis, already feeling the slow burn of the oncoming night and what surprises might be in store for a couple of free vigilantes down for a little _mayhem_.

He’s grinning when the Batmobile’s brake lights tap twice in a _happy hunting_ before he veers off to head to his part of town and get on with some _investigating_. The night is ready, settling on his shoulders and back, and the distinct moment, the epiphanic realization settles with it:

_Welcome Home_

Yeah...it really _is_, isn’t it?


End file.
